Unconscious
by NotAContrivance
Summary: All is not as it seems in Andrew's carefully constructed world. "Well, then, you're not Bridget pretending to be Siobhan, are you?" he drawled, attempting a smile. She froze and swallowed hard, pulling away from him.


This story is half born out of my restlessness and there being no new stories posted for the past few days, even though I have so many better (but less enjoyable) things to be doing than writing these one-shots. And the other half is from an amusing dream/daydream I had. Anyway, this story's kind of odd, but it was my attempt to get more inside Andrew's head, and, wow, I invented a lot about his marriage to Siobhan which will probably be proven wrong but could, I suppose, bear some resemblance to how it actually is. There aren't really any spoilers in it, to my knowledge, except the fact that this story is presumably set sometime after tomorrow's episode (you haven't seen the promo, this next sentence is kind of a spoiler, and you should avoid it), assuming that Bridget tells him about the twin thing in said episode like she's supposed to. It may likely be a bit AU since I obviously don't know what the hell is going to be said in the episode. But, basically, the point is that Andrew knows about Bridget's existence and her name but not a lot of concrete facts about her, which is what kind of sets up the story. It gets a bit more into Bridget towards the end, but the majority of this story is Andrew-oriented, so, as usual, I hope I haven't botched him up.

I do not own Ringer. I love it but do not own it. If I did, there would be more drama, less needless Malcolm torturing, and Henry would be less annoying, and you would've seen his and Gemma's supposed children already, among other things. Oh, and more shirtless men by a factor of ten. Anyway, I hope you enjoy my story and that it's a nice appetizer for what should be a tasty morsel of November Sweeps and the glorious television that accompanies it. I also very much appreciate reviews if you've got the time. ;)

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><p>Andrew came home early for the fifth night in a row, uncharacteristically humming to himself. Over the past weeks, he'd been more excited to come home than he was to go to work, uncertain of what new and wonderful surprise awaited him. It hadn't been like that in years. For the past years, he'd been more enthralled by the market's rollercoaster-like ups and downs than anything his wife had done, feeding off those risks while shunning any change in his home life. Siobhan had opined nastily and frequently that earning money and playing with the market was the only thing he did well, so Andrew spent more nights at the office, where people respected him and deferred to his leadership, than at his empty, chilly residence.<p>

Somewhere along the way, he'd forgotten what it was like to be _excited_ about something; that had gotten lost somewhere after he'd put the big, shiny ring on her finger and things slowly soured between them like forgotten milk in a refrigerator. He was seeing sides of Siobhan he'd never seen before, and he liked this new, hands-on Siobhan who was making every effort to get into his good graces. She did things the old Siobhan never would've deigned to do, like making him coffee and tea (and remembering the way he liked it), giving him back massages after hard days at the office, and reading up on the stocks so she'd have something to talk to him about at the end of the day. It was all a little unnerving; he wasn't sure she'd ever taken that much interest in him, even when they were dating.

However, he couldn't shake the feeling that all of this was too good to be true, and Andrew was a firm believer that, if something seemed too good to be true, it usually was. Still, he had no real reason to doubt her, just this vague inclination, albeit that same trusted gut instinct that told him which stocks and investments to pick, so Andrew was along for the ride for the moment.

He sniffed, catching a whiff of something spicy in the air that smelled like cinnamon and autumn. Andrew set his briefcase down by the chair and tried to determine where the smell was coming from. He started to shrug off his heavy wool coat, walking over to the closet and hanging it up. "Siobhan?" he called, heading further into the entrance. The smell seemed to be emanating from the kitchen.

That was another odd thing; Siobhan had taken to cooking in the past two weeks. Sure, she'd reminded him about some cooking class she'd taken a few years ago and said she wanted to have family meals, but, before this, Andrew could've counted the times she'd cooked for them in the entirety of their marriage and courtship on one hand with fingers leftover. Actually, he was pretty sure she'd only cooked for him when they were dating. One time had been breakfast with all the fixings the morning after the first night he'd spent with her, and the other had been some time at three in the morning when they'd both woken up ravenous after several rounds of intense lovemaking.

She'd started making him breakfast some mornings when he was less rushed, cooking while he was in the shower or getting ready. She'd even made dinner a few nights when it was just the two of them, and, though he'd had a niggling sensation that she was trying to poison him, it had been quite good. She'd blushed when he complimented her on it and mumbled something about spices and trying out new recipes. He smiled faintly, remembering how she'd gone all out for the last dinner, with wine and candles and a dessert from the French bakery down the street. He stilled, getting caught up in the memory of her smile, the richness of her laugh when he said something funny, the sparkle in her eyes when she looked at him. They'd talked for a long time, _really_ talked the way they hadn't since before they got married when they were just getting to know each other. They'd exchanged stories about their days, their childhoods, and, later, when they were sitting on the couch, they'd talked about all the things they wanted for their future child.

He was fairly certain he was falling in love with her all over again, that he'd never really known her before, and he loved her more for this strange new side of her no doubt brought on by some unseen change of heart or the child slowly growing in her womb.

Andrew was about to peek his head in the kitchen when the elevator dinged. He turned around slowly, wondering who it could be. Juliet was either home already or out with friends. Olivia would've called him, and Henry and Gemma were out of the question. Andrew frowned to himself, thinking how pathetic it was that he and Siobhan didn't have more visitors. Then again, he supposed he wanted to keep this new Siobhan all to himself to pursue again, so maybe that was for the best.

Strangely, the gilded doors opened to reveal none other than his lovely wife. She was in the process of putting her scarf and sunglasses in one of those gargantuan handbags he likes to tease her about, so she didn't notice him standing there, waiting for her, arms slowly opening. He can't help but think she looks a bit... different, though. Her hair's back in the tight, elegant bun she's favored as long as he's known her, rather than the more loose, flowing styles he's come to expect in the past few months. She was dressed in a large trenchcoat, a black and silver tunic, wide-leg pants, her typical stilettos and the biggest and most gaudy metal necklace he has ever seen in his life. She'd been wearing different clothes when he last saw her this morning, bright clothes that made her look substantially smaller. She seemed a bit preoccupied, given that she'd barely exited the elevator and had yet to notice his presence or glance around at her surroundings as she so often did. Finally, he broke the silence, unable to wait any longer, "Siobhan?"

She blinked and looked up at him, looking at him like she hasn't seen him in a while and she wasn't quite sure what to make of this. Siobhan eyed his outstretched hands most pointedly, like she doesn't understand what he's offering. "Hello, Andrew," she said after a while, the way she used to, disinterested and bored with him already. The smile dropped right off his face the same way it always had when she'd greeted him like that. He was still trying to think the best of her, to assume it's just a silly game, so he pulled her in and went for the now-traditional kiss hello. Except Siobhan started in his arms, flinched and froze up when he touched her. Furthermore, she dodged his lips, allowing him to kiss her cheek instead and drawing her head back before he could try again for a proper kiss.

Andrew frowned, perplexed and wondering why his wife was drawing away from him like a stranger. Things had been getting better between them. He was certain he hadn't imagined that. Then Siobhan stepped back and smiled at him politely like he was some sort of benign stranger and not her husband. He could tell from the way it didn't meet her eyes that it was a forced smile. "Siobhan, are you okay?" he asked her before he could stop himself. Ordinarily he might reach out and touch her arm to comfort her, but today Andrew had the feeling that she would eat him alive if he tried.

Siobhan blinked again, eyes widening slightly. As if she's surprised he cares. For a moment Siobhan was silent, zipping her purse, but then she nodded slowly, giving him that all-too-familiar look that suggested that he's deranged. "Of course I am, Andrew. Why do you ask?" she replied in a disinterested, robotic voice, carefully modulated to conceal any actual feelings. It's such a stupid question because something is clearly wrong.

Andrew swallowed, wondering why, all of a sudden, he had to tread more carefully with his wife. He ran his eyes over her, trying to puzzle out what's so different to him. It was something more than the way she's been acting both lately and now, something he can't quite put his finger on. "You seem... different," he suggested quietly, not wanting to risk angering her by bringing up pregnancy hormones. She was very different, actually—quieter, more distant, distracted, hiding something. Something must be on her mind.

And only _now_ does she seem to him to actually look pregnant. Andrew caught sight of the faint swell of her belly, the faintest, tiniest sign of the beautiful things to come. How hadn't he noticed that before? Something in Siobhan's eyes flashed, something dark and mean and terribly familiar to him. He spoke up again, mostly to prevent her from making the inevitable insult, "Is the, er, baby giving you any trouble?" His gaze dropped to her stomach; he was genuinely concerned about the life growing inside of her, has been ever since the day he first heard, and he'd hate to think the baby was hurting her. She never complained about morning sickness or swelling or any of the things he remembered Catherine bitching about, just like she didn't often discuss their upcoming bundle of joy.

Her hand fell and came to rest protectively on her stomach as she eyed him with barely-veiled suspicion. She held her head up high like a peacock, glowering at him for reasons he cannot comprehend, traces of condescension in her mien. Andrew frowned at her, unsure of what to say but certain he is about to say the wrong thing. Fortunately, he was interrupted by an equally familiar voice calling his name. "Andrew, where arrrre you?" another Siobhan called out, drawing out the words. Her words echoed throughout the house, cheery and a bit coy like the Siobhan he's slowly getting used to all over again. Footsteps padded out of the kitchen, and Andrew turned around. It was disturbingly easy to turn his back on the Siobhan he's just run into, who is so different and yet so horribly, unfortunately familiar.

This Siobhan stood in the doorway of the kitchen, peeking out at him. Her hair was in a messy, haphazard up-do. She was wearing the same clothes that she'd been in this morning: a burgundy sweater that's falling off one freckled shoulder, baring a cream-colored bra strap, and skinny black pants, only with an flour-dusted apron over it. Their eyes met, and she started to walk over to him. "I was beginning to think I was hearing things," she confessed indulgently. She smiled at him so easily, like she'd been doing it all her life.

Andrew wasn't thinking about the Siobhan behind him, not one bit.

He focused on the Siobhan in front of him, the one who was smiling and smelled like cinnamon sugar and flour. A part of him probably knows that his whole world has changed and is about to be completely upset... he knows a bit about what has probably happened... but he won't let the thoughts get there. They all terminated in front of this beautiful woman who was still beaming at him.

She leaned in to whisper in his ear, "I thought you were getting undressed. Have to say I'm a little bit disappointed you didn't." Her tongue glided along her lips. Andrew swallowed hard, wishing she wasn't still fully dressed. Her wandering fingers have a mind of their own; they've already begun to loosen his tie for him before she even pulls away. His throat was completely dry, and he had no idea what he could possibly say to her, what explanations he could even ask. While Andrew was still debating this, Bridget leaned in further, taking his face in her hands, thumbs stroking his cheeks, grinning like a girl as her fingers take in the feel of his features. For a moment, she merely stared at him, taking in the dazed, faraway look in his eyes, and then she pressed her lips to his. The jolt of her lips against his was so sudden and _electric_ that it broke Andrew free from his reverie.

He did what he couldn't before, wrapping his arms around her without a second thought, pulling her against him so that nearly every inch of their bodies were touching. Andrew's jaw dropped a little as his mouth opened wider against hers, drawing her in. Her tongue swept across his lip and into his mouth. His teeth scraped her lips. They kissed for a bit longer than they usually would because, for whatever reason (he knows _exactly_ why), he needs this more tonight. She was the one to pull away, like earlier, albeit breathless and flushed, eyes a dark, dusky green. The flakes of gold and amber in her eyes are taunting him, drawing him deeper into her. "It's good to see you too, darling."

She quirked a smile at him. Her lips remained more or less against his so that he felt and received every word from her lips to his like an electrical circuit without end. "I made pumpkin scones," Siobhan told him in a whisper, like it's some kind of secret. Very solemnly, she continued, "Juliet said they're your favorite?" Andrew nodded slowly. She hadn't made much of an effort to appreciate his culture before, had always sort of taken it for granted so she could have a husband with a sexy accent, or so he supposes, but recently she's indulged him with little things that he appreciates, like afternoon tea and a bonfire and fireworks on Guy Fawkes' Day.

She'd tasted a bit like pumpkin and vanilla and sugar all mixed together, like she's really made of sugar and spice and everything nice. Siobhan kept beaming at him, taking his hand and starting to lead him into the kitchen. The mischievous, flirtatious look in her eyes suggested that she wanted you to sample more than her baked goods. However, the apparition behind him cleared her throat, stifling a laugh. She spoke before either of them could turn to look at her, the words cold and acerbic. "I can't decide what's more pathetic, the Mary Sue Homemaker act or the fact that you're buying it, Andrew. I thought you had more sense than that at least."

They both flinched at the familiar sound of her voice, cutting as always, and they turned around almost in unison. Andrew's arm remained slung comfortably across the back of her waist, holding her to his side. He suppressed the anger starting to bubble up within him at his wife's mocking words and glanced from one woman to the other. They were the same, with the same face and hair and voice, yet somehow different. A niggling voice in the back of his head reminded him that there was, of course, an explanation for this and that he ought not to be surprised, but Andrew can't for the life of him remember why. The Siobhan in his arms froze and turned as white as a pillar of salt. "Siobhan..." she murmured as if she couldn't believe it, eyes wide and distracted.

The other Siobhan merely smirked in response, daintily setting her purse down on the table and walking towards them. "Hello again, Sis." Her eyes are cold and hard, the color of camouflage, army fatigues, and money. Those cool eyes cut over to him and met his eyes for a moment, cutting him into ribbons. She rolled her eyes, gaze once again on her sister as she gestures to him dismissively. "More than a little out of your league, isn't he?" Siobhan trilled as a mocking smile formed on those coral lips. "Isn't he just a little too good for someone like _you_?" she continued with an odd edge in her voice. Neither the new, subtle nastiness of her tone nor the way _his_ Siobhan's entire face fell escaped Andrew.

"What's that supposed to mean?" Andrew challenged, too confused to muster up the appropriate level of irritation and annoyance, though some of it comes across as protectiveness for his wife. At that particular moment, Andrew was struck with the very strange sensation that the woman he had an arm wrapped around was inevitably his wife, the woman he'd come to expect over the past weeks, but that the woman opposite him was also his wife. She was too bitter and icy and hard not to be his icicle wife. He felt like he was being haunted by ghosts of marriages past and future.

The other Siobhan looked at him, mild amusement playing across her pretty features. She smiled unkindly at her copy. "Do you want to tell him, Sis, or should I?" she asked in a perfectly level and perfectly diabolical voice. Her smile was razor thin and sharp. "After all, he has a _right_ to know what he's gotten into, don't you think?" she drawled, smile turning positively wicked as the other woman blanched, grabbing one of his hands tightly. Siobhan's teeth gleamed in triumph.

Andrew rubbed his forehead, feeling the hard creases of wrinkles and wondering just what it was he'd gotten himself into here. He clenched his jaw, forcing a breath out through his nostrils. Less than five minutes, and this woman was already managing to claw her way under his skin. "What the _hell_ is this, Siobhan?" he snapped, fed up with all her insinuations. She was drawing it out to make both of them suffer, the same way she always had when they were married. The woman at his side, for her part, was completely silent and still pale. It took him a second glance to realize that she was trembling very finely and casting anxious glances in his direction. He squeezed her hand in an attempt to comfort her, diverting his attention for a moment.

Siobhan offered him an indulgent smile. She'd worn that smile many times in their marriage. It was her way of simultaneously denigrating his ideas, calling him stupid or naïve, and patronizing him. He _hated_ that damn smile. "She was enjoying my life a little too much, Andrew. Something had to be done," Siobhan explained calmly, setting her shoulders. She turned to her doppleganger with a fearsome, determined glint in her eyes, and then she tore her sister's hand from his. His wife cried out in pain, and his grip tightened around her waist.

At first he had no idea what this manic, mad Siobhan was doing, but then he saw her jerking on her sister's hand, tugging hard on her ring finger, and he gets the picture. Her fingers were twisting the rings off his wife's slender finger, and his wife was shouting and trying to fight the other Siobhan off. "I had to take it back," Siobhan added unnecessarily, shooting him a bland yet pointed look and putting a bit more effort into removing the ring. He was about to step to his wife's aid and then get to the bottom of all of this when his wife stunned him by bringing her arm up and swiping the bitch's hands away from her, pulling her hand free with lightning-fast reflexes.

Other Siobhan fell back a few steps and gaped at her sister, rubbing her arm distractedly. His wife was breathing a bit faster and had a similar look on her face, like she couldn't believe she'd just done that. He too was staring at her in awe; he'd never known Siobhan to fight, much less that she seemed to have this hidden strength within her. Of course he knew his wife was strong, but he'd always thought she was strong in a different, quiet way, that her strength lay in all the emotions she could conceal. "Why are you doing this?" his wife murmured, staring at the other woman with all of her emotions naked on her face. He can plainly see the hurt, the betrayal, the confusion on her face, and it reminds him of the few years when Siobhan had trusted him with her emotions, before she'd begun using Botox to mask the wrinkles and expressions. Or maybe he'd merely thought she'd trusted him, and he'd been wrong about her all along?

Siobhan sneered at her, still clutching her arm protectively around herself. "Maybe because this is _my_ life, and I want it back?" she retorted sharply. Her eyes flashed like a burst of green lightning. Her lips turned down at the corners, face twisting into an unpleasant expression as she stepped forward toward her sister. She crossed her arms over her chest like a snake, coiling up before it attacks. "You've had your fifteen minutes, Sis, but I'm tired of you _ruining_ everything." She was so close she was practically in her sister's face, so close he can feel the rage radiating off of her, can hear it quaking in her voice.

The woman next to him took a step forward, showing Siobhan she wasn't afraid. Her cowed, hurt expression changed to something truly fearsome—a look nearly identical to that of her opposite, fierce, intent, determined, and a bit mad. He looked down at her sides; she was clenching her fists, readying herself to strike. She gave him a brief look, and he gave her an encouraging smile. She returned the smile and then returned glowering at her duplicate. "I don't think _you_ get to decide that, Siobhan. You walked out on this. You don't get to just come back one day and pretend _nothing_ happened," she snarled, stepping in front of him protectively and getting so close to her sister that their chests nearly brushed. Her voice left no room for question or other interpretations. "I wasn't holding your place."

She cocked her head, squinting at her sister. "What's your game, Shiv?" she asked, staring at the other woman, searching for answers. Siobhan's pokerface, as per usual, gave nothing away. She crossed her arms over her chest, inscrutable gaze still on her sister. "You can't really be mad. Not when you're the one who left all your documents and wedding rings behind, like you _wanted_ me to find them," she pronounced calmly, still studying her opposite. "You knew I was desperate... We both know I don't think very far ahead..." Now that he thought about it, it did seem odd that calculating, measuring, meticulously-planning Siobhan was stepping outside of the prescribed script. "You had to at least _think_ that I might do something like this," she said, giving her sister a challenging look.

Siobhan said nothing and didn't even move, just stared back at the woman opposite her. Had she been a normal person, she might've shrugged, but Siobhan's every motion was deliberate. His wife's hands fell to her hips as she surged forward, dropping the apron on the floor. Her eyes were blazing. He hasn't seen his wife this furious in months (and not with him, either!), so enraged he could swear her eyes are shooting bright green sparks. Her eyes burned like the cigarettes she sneaked sometimes when she didn't think he would notice.

"How do I know you didn't set me up? Way I see it, you _wanted_ me to take on this life. To fill the role for a while. Either to fail miserably... Or else you wanted me to die in your place. Either way, it's some form of control over me, isn't it?" she barked, glowering at her copy and advancing menacingly. She's all taut muscle and rage, nearly shaking with it, and it would take just a little push for her to start swinging at the other woman. It's more than just anger, though; she's upset about something else, a sisterly betrayal he can never understand.

Neither woman took one step back. Neither woman is willing to back down. Whatever the stakes are, they're too high for that. Their identical eyes lock in a stalemate. They break the stare at exactly the same moment, almost circling each other. Siobhan's eyes swept over his wife from head-to-toe. His wife, for her part, held her head up as proudly as a swan. Siobhan's eyes lit up with a revelation, widening slightly as she stares at her mirror image. Strangely, her gaze landed on him for a moment, and then her eyes were traveling from him to her sister and back again a few times. He felt her gaze linger on the hand he's placed on his wife's hip, on the place where their legs are leaning against each other. Her lips curved into that same vicious smile from before. She let out a merry little laugh that sounds like ringing bells. "Oh, that's cute. You've grown attached to him," she drawled almost fondly, reaching out swiftly to pinch his cheek.

He drew away from her touch like a skittish animal, and something flickered over her face like annoyance or anger... or perhaps something else. His wife angrily smacked her sister's hand away mere seconds after her fingers made contact with his skin, and Siobhan chuckled to herself, shaking her reddened fingers in the air.

"My, my, aren't we territorial?" she taunted, eyes sliding over him, giving him a look of pure molten lust just because she knew it bothered her sister. He felt a flicker of something familiar when she looked at him like that, but it was so foreign and so... weak in comparison to his recent memories, that it was easy enough to shake off. His wife was bearing her teeth at her clone as her hand scrabbled to find the hand at her hip, clutching it tighter and tighter once her fingers blindly found his own. Siobhan snickered. "And he's not even _your_ husband." His wife held his hand tighter still, so hard it hurt, refusing to surrender.

As if to tempt fate, Siobhan reached a hand out for his arm and let her palm hang there in the air, suspended over his forearm, just so she could watch her copy squirm. She clucked her tongue, shaking her head at the other woman's foolishness. "When _are_ you going to learn? You _always_ get too attached. Just like when we got that bunny for Easter. You cried for days and refused to eat when Dad cooked it for dinner. All for a silly rabbit we only had for a few months," Siobhan continued with a heavily mocking undertone. She snorted. Andrew blinked, taking in the sight of Siobhan, who looked somewhat crazed, and his wife, who was sniffling. The look he saw on Siobhan's face was completely absent of any pity or regret or even any compassion for the rabbit, so utterly unsentimental that it repulsed him and made him cling tighter to his wife.

His wife spoke before Siobhan could open her mouth to say more. "His name was Peter. Peter Cottontail," she said in a shaky voice. The important thing is that her conviction didn't waver at all, not even one bit. He watched as something in her eyes hardened and coalesced. "And he was a black Silver Marten." Andrew blinked, confused about what his last name has to do with any of this. This should be comical, two sisters arguing about a long-dead rabbit, but for whatever reason, it's not. It left him feeling unsettled, like he was a part of something bigger and way beyond his depth now, some primordial sisterly struggle.

Siobhan rolled her eyes, giving her a saccharine smile. "People don't stick around once they see you for what you really are," she spat, smile turning downright mean, "I'd have thought you'd have gotten used to that by now." She said it as if she were bored by it, enjoying the way the woman opposite her flinched as if she'd been stricken. She seemed to feed on this, on causing the other woman pain. He saw the tears pooling in his wife's eyes. Siobhan yawned, annoyed at how slow her sister's reaction was.

Her hand pressed down on his shoulder briefly, and her expression turned serious again. "But Andrew's not an Easter rabbit, Sis, and, trust me..." she said, drawing disturbingly closer to him. She'd said it in this low and sultry voice that reminded him of a teen movie he'd watched a little after he graduated uni and was working that first crazy job on the London Stock Exchange. Now that he thought about it, the maddening girl in it had looked and acted a lot like a brunette version Siobhan. Siobhan cocked her head and leaned in toward her double conspiratorially. She shot him a dismissive look, lips turning down in a pout. "-He doesn't taste even half as good." She made a face and gave the other woman a pitying expression, patting her on the shoulder.

The way her eyes flicked to his for one brief, torturous instant knocked all the air out of him. It dawned on him that this woman with her dark, burning eyes, _did_ know him intimately. It was written all over her face. Only the Siobhan he'd married would say something like that and watch his reaction as the disgust flickered over her face. Her eyes narrowed as her smile turned downright ugly, noxious and poisonous like chlorine gas. "Now, tell me... exactly how long did it take you to screw my husband, Bridget?" she demanded in a biting voice.

It finally clicked, what he'd been missing the whole time, that thing he was supposed to know that was just on the tip of his tongue. He glances over at the woman he thought was his wife, and just like that, he sees it. He sees her... _Bridget_. Bridget stared back at him, very still and petrified-looking. She watched him intently, searching for any reaction, depending very much on his reaction. She forced herself to tear her eyes away from him before Siobhan commented on it and managed to further embarrass her. Bridget stared her sister down but didn't say a word to confirm or deny what she'd asked, though Andrew knows just as well as Bridget that they've never actually slept together... not that it wasn't going to head that way soon.

Siobhan scowled, crossing her arms over her chest. "What, Bridget, cat got your tongue?" Bridget merely gave her sister a look, firm but challenging, doubtlessly aware that not telling her sister will anger her more than answering one way or the other. His actual wife's scowl deepened, and she turned to him, expression turning even more unpleasant. "What about you, Andrew? My sister's good in bed, isn't she?" Siobhan hammered, casting a stray glance at her sister. Andrew wisely followed Bridget's example and avoided saying a word. He stared steadily back at Siobhan, trying not to look at the woman he thought his wife was (and, if he's truly being honest with himself, the woman he actually wants his wife to be). "Better than me?"

Somehow, even though neither of them have said anything, Siobhan managed to piece the truth together. Her eyes widen almost comically, and she almost doubled over, as if she really couldn't believe it. "Oh my God. You two haven't had sex," Siobhan exclaimed, looking from one of them to the other. Andrew was unable to decipher the look on her face; was that rage or admiration underneath all of her disbelief? It took her a few long moments to recover. Her harsh words are a bit surprisingly directed towards him. "Seriously, Andrew, is something wrong with you?" she mocked, scrutinizing him carefully and taking a step toward him. "You haven't been laid in several months, and you can't even get my sister who, for whatever reason, actually _likes_ you, to sleep with you?" Siobhan continued incredulously, practically sputtering at the ridiculousness of it all.

He stiffened; she'd hit a sore spot. Andrew frowned, remembering the last time he'd had sex with Siobhan. The two of them had been furious with each other, had gone into the bedroom straight after a fight, still hot. They'd planned to have sex that night anyway, and it only took a little push to get the both of them to the bed to battle it out. But even then, it had been too brief and not quite satisfying enough, dark and under the covers, insert Part A in Slot B. She'd been lazy, letting him do all the work, like even laying there was a chore for her... and he'd been left feeling used and unfulfilled. He glanced over at Bridget, briefly meeting her gaze. Her cheeks were red, and she immediately averted her gaze once he caught her look.

Siobhan snorted contemptuously, gesturing to her sister and throwing a hard look her way. "She was a **whore** for God's sake!" She took care to emphasize this fact, enjoying how it affected her sister. Bridget cringed, eyes shutting, grimacing at the word, steeling herself against it. A cruel smile formed on Siobhan's face at the sight. "She'd sleep with just about anyone who kept her in money and drugs..." she drawled, enjoying it a little too immensely. This was just one of Siobhan's many unattractive qualities. He watched the shame spread across Bridget's face and thought about how horrible Siobhan was to say such things to her sister, her own flesh and blood and DNA. Then again, why was he surprised? She'd sworn to love him forever, and she'd berated and insulted him every chance she got while they were married and had abandoned him only to come back and ruin his life when he was just starting to be happy again.

It was just like her, really. She gave him that belittingly look he so despised, just barely managing to hold back a deprecating snicker. He was completely mental to think she'd ever change. He should've known earlier that the woman offering to make amends was by no means his wife; his wife didn't compromise or think about anyone other than herself. "And you couldn't even manage to seal the deal? Really?" she taunted, tone still unbelieving. She looked at her sister like she thought she was trash, like she should accept any offer thrown her way, even if it was from a man of limited charms like himself.

She threw a mean look at him, that damned smile tugging on her lips. "Guess you're not enough for my sister either." The words stung more than he was willing to acknowledge. Though things have changed between him and his wife, he's still not accustomed to letting her see how much her actions and some of the things she says hurt him, especially not with this old Siobhan. It's never enough for her. The words "never enough" haunt him and remind him of his many failings... as a husband, as a father, as a man, as a human being. Siobhan was only too happy to remind him of his shortcomings.

Bridget surprisingly came to his defense. Andrew was too far in his own head to hear much of what she was saying, but she was disagreeing with her sister, saying Siobhan is wrong about him and about everything. Bridget snapped that Siobhan didn't have any right to talk about him like that, but he unfortunately knows far better than her about these things. Andrew shook the voice out of his head, the one that sounded like Siobhan and insulted everything he did, calling him insignificant and insubstantial, calling him a failure. He drowned that voice out, thinking back to her previous comment about him failing to sleep with her sister.

Andrew thought back to a conversation they'd had shortly after they'd begun to reconcile. He wasn't so dumb or out of practice that he didn't recognize the glimmer of attraction and flirtation in his wife's eyes that night at his office. It had been clear then that they'd both have liked to act on it, but the woman he thought was Siobhan had stopped. She was biting her lip and looking at him with something rather like longing. "Andrew, I... I don't want to ruin this," she'd said hesitantly. He'd nodded. "Can we take it slow?" she'd asked pleadingly, lip trembling a little. He remembered thinking that she looked scared of him, though he didn't know why. She'd hastened to elaborate, "I know we, uh, kinda rushed things when we first got together, but I want to make sure we don't screw this up by moving too fast too soon."

He'd seen the point in that, remembering with a bit of regret as he always did just how quickly he and Siobhan had taken things. Maybe that was one of the reasons why they'd had so many problems. He'd squeezed her hand and silently agreed, even though he couldn't help noticing that her eyes were saying the exact opposite of what she'd just said. She'd smiled at him a bit more confidently. "I... just _really_ want it to work out, Andrew," she'd told him, taking both of his hands in hers. He'd draped his arms around her waist, pulling her against him and wishing for a moment that they'd actually gone to the ballet together... yet that moment alone with her in the dark of his office had been somehow ten times better than a whole evening in a stuffy box at the ballet.

He knew, but she'd pulled back anyway, looking at him that same coy way she had before. Her eyes had dropped to his lips a few times; he hadn't missed that. Her hands traveled up his arms, and she'd squeezed his biceps faintly, firmly holding onto him. "I _want_ this..." She'd licked her lips, and then he'd started staring at her mouth. "Too... I do," she'd promised. He'd been unable to ignore the way his heart jolted at those words like wedding vows. "Just as much as you do," she'd said, echoing her previous words about trusting each other. She'd pushed him away lightly. "But..." She swallowed hard, and he felt her eyes running over him, taking it all in. She hadn't looked at him like that in years, but she was seeing him with new, appreciative eyes. "We shouldn't... rush things..." she'd murmured, leaning in a bit too close, "because getting back what we had before is more important."

He didn't know it then, but he realizes now that he didn't really want what he and Siobhan had before. He wanted something _better_.

She'd seemed to realize what she was doing, the trap she was falling into, and she'd pulled back, smiling a bit uncomfortably. Her breathing was a bit fast; it was only her request, the reminder how important this was, that was holding him back from taking her on that big metal desk of his. She cleared her throat, trying to clear her head. The lust-filled stare didn't go away like she wanted it to, though. "We've both changed a lot over the past few years... and we need to get to know each other all over again," she explained, looking him in the eyes with more directness than ever before. She reached out, fingers straightening his tie and flattening his collar. He tried to pretend like he didn't just suck in a huge breath, like her touching him through the thin, starched fabric of his shirt. "We have to, um... work on building up our relationship first," she'd said, glancing up at him and biting the corner of her lip.

He'd agreed, of course, and he'd come to find this type of _real_ intimacy, of being able to rely on his wife, of having someone to share his problems and worries and duties with, preferable to the dull, deadening illusion of intimacy that the occasional sex had provided. It had been so _nice_ to be able to trust someone else, to not have to take it all on by himself. And they'd been working towards that these past few months, had almost come to that point when Siobhan had showed up.

The real Siobhan laughed loudly, bringing him back to his present unpleasant reality. The bitch was back, for better or worse. "You can't turn a whore into a housewife, Andrew," she said smugly. A triumphant, evil smile spread across her lips, and Andrew's stomach roiled at the sight. He caught a flash of the glimmer of tears just about to fall in Bridget's eyes, saw the way she retreated into herself after her sister's frosty words. He was about to reply that he should already know that when he's shaken and torn from this world.

Andrew starts awake with the wrong name on his lips. "Bridget..." he murmured sleepily. He awakened to find Siobhan turned on her side, watching him and shaking him awake. Her hands were planted firmly on his chest, and Andrew was suddenly very aware of this fact, absorbing the heat of her skin through his t-shirt. His breathing was already coming fast, but it seemed to become more ragged as he tried to blink away the confusion of the dream world.

"I'm here," Siobhan responded instinctively, a bit too quickly, curling a little more into his side. Her eyes were wide with worry. She leaned across his chest, bringing one of her hands up to press the back of her palm to his feverish forehead. He felt his breathing speed up; he doesn't have the energy to pretend he's unaffected, that her being so close isn't making him all confused and stirring up old feelings he'd thought had disappeared forever. She frowned faintly, wiping the light sweat from his brow with a softness so foreign it must've been tenderness. She smiled down at him gently, her hair just skimming his face. She pressed her lips lightly to his still-moist forehead, lingering for a good minute to test his temperature, and Andrew closed his eyes and pretended for a moment that his wife always acted like this.

He was still in a fog from the dream, but it felt nice to be looked after. His eyes flicked open—once, twice, thrice—after Siobhan's lips removed themselves from his face. She froze, still halfway bent over him, kind of like she'd just realized that he was watching her. Andrew licked his dry lips, thinking of the dream and wondering why the name of Siobhan's mysterious twin sister keeps running through his mind. Siobhan tried to smile, but he can tell he's unnerved her. "You were having a nightmare," she explained worriedly. She's begun dragging her fingers through his hair, playing with the damp strands, being oddly careful to avoid snagging a tangle or causing him even the slightest pain.

Andrew gave into the sensation slowly, relaxing little by little until he can close his eyes. Andrew feels like he's missing something, something kind of obvious, but he can't really think with her so close and actually showing him affection. He pulled his wife more fully toward him, turning her so her head and half her body weight rests on his chest. She smelled like sleep, faint, faded floral perfumes, sugar, and home. If he strained his nose, he could even pick up a bit of his scent on her. He remained quiet for a long time, enjoying the soft feeling of her hand in his hair, the pads of her fingers massaging his scalp. "I'm sorry I woke you," he said in a low, rumbly voice, finally finding his voice.

She shook her head, smiling uneasily, but Andrew didn't see any of that. "What were you dreaming about?" she asked distractedly, too calmly, as her fingers raked through his hair. That snaps him back to reality. He remembers his purpose, remembers bits and pieces, snatches of his dream and that world. Andrew jolted upwards as if struck by lightning, sitting up a little and turning to stare at his companion.

He stared down at her with a startled look in his eyes, still breathless like he'd seen a ghost. Andrew looked down at his wife, at how small and delicate she was, how thin, how he could feel the bones under her skin. He examined his wife in detail, observing her like he hadn't in years. It was rare for him to get a good, close-up look at her. He takes in the wavy strands of sunkissed hair, gold like wheat and honey, the high, round cheekbones, her peculiar nose, the perfect symmetry of her face, the gray-green of her almond-shaped eyes, eyes that change color depending on her mood and the clothes she wears, the sandy fringe of her eyelashes. This is his wife, and she is beautiful and perfect and everything he ever thought she was (only more). His eyes trailed over her face, lingering on the lush rose fullness of her lips, lips he hasn't tasted in weeks. "You and your sister."

For a moment, the image of his wife in front of his eyes doubles, and he sees both twins, Siobhan and Bridget. Then he blinked, and there's only the one in front of him, one half of a whole. She blinked, stiffening a little and changing as she always did whenever he brought up her sister. He told himself it was because talking about her sister brought up a lot of painful memories, but maybe it was something else. She took her hand from his hair, placing both hands on either side of his face, fingers skimming his cheeks. "Judging by the way you were tossing and turning, it wasn't pleasant?" Siobhan asked wryly, with a touch of amusement to her voice. She began to pull the sheets up around him, carefully straightening what his uncharacteristically violent night movements had twisted up and tangled.

Andrew sighed, leaning more fully against their headboard and looking at her. He was well aware he was wearing a grim, tight expression. He frowned in contemplation, thinking back to the dream, straining to remember the details. The unimportant details, the reasons why it all made sense, are all gone, long ago faded away. But he remembered other things, the important things. "I don't remember much, Shiv, only that there were two of you." She was watching him with a kind of curious anxiety, literally hanging on his every word. "You made pumpkin scones," he added with a smile, mouth already salivating a little at the thought. "And it was like the old Siobhan had come back and was saying all kinds of nasty things about the both of us." He didn't want to remember the things she'd said, but he couldn't quite forget those details so easily.

He said this without thinking, still too sleepy to self-censor, and he regrets it almost the minute the words came out of his mouth. She didn't, however, react like he expected. She looked down, almost hanging her head a little. "That sounds awful..." she said sympathetically, squeezing his hand. She pulled back just enough so that she can get a proper look at him, wrapping an arm unthinkingly across his abdomen. Inexplicably, unlike the old Siobhan, she doesn't rise to the bait. Andrew exhaled heavily at the unexpected sensation, jerking a little when his wife's fingers found their way underneath his t-shirt to lazily draw patterns on the bare skin of his stomach. "And what would you have done, Andrew?"

He shrugged. He hadn't had much time to think, let alone entertain possibilities in the dream. "Dunno. I didn't get that far." Her face fell, but he didn't see in the darkness. It was strange that his wife was touching him so much; she hadn't been this comfortable with him in over a year. He was working it over in his head, remembering his own inaction in the dream, thinking back to the snippets of words and feelings that had remained. "I just know I wouldn't have gone back to the way it was," he said in a low voice that surprised even himself.

She smiled to herself, but Andrew didn't notice. She licked her lips slowly, and Andrew watched her with a flicker of interest. His eyes dropped to the creamy skin of her shoulder, to the neckline of her shift and beyond to the beginning of the valley between her breasts. "If you had to choose between me and the old Siobhan. Who would you pick?" she asked suddenly, straightening a bit in his arms so that she's sitting now too, turned into him and leaning against the headboard. There was an odd urgency in her eyes, something desperate in the way her arm squeezes his waist to stay somewhat upright.

He'd been married long enough to be wary of such a question, but given what he said earlier, maybe the truth would be okay. Either way, her eyes were round like tiny planets, teeming full of life and color and something pleading for the truth. He knows he can't lie to her; she'll know. Andrew shifted her into his arms, bringing her closer to his chest. His breath came a little short when he felt her chest flush against his. A moment later, he glanced down and saw halfway down her dress. He looked away before she could catch him staring, feeling for the strangest reason like he'd violated her privacy, the privacy of this woman he thought he knew everything about. But maybe he doesn't know every intimate detail, since he never knew about her sister. "Love, that isn't even a question, is it?" he asked, watching her curiously.

Her expression hardened just a little, and he saw her steeling herself, as if she expects him to say he preferred their old life. Only a madman would prefer such a hell. "Just answer it, Andrew," she muttered through clenched teeth, trying _so_ hard to act normal, like she wasn't uncertain at all. She crossed an arm over her chest, staring up at him expectantly. She sounded a lot like the Siobhan he'd dreamed about.

He frowned, slightly alarmed that she really did expect him to prefer their old life to this surreal new direction their marriage was heading. He debated for a moment whether or not this was the right answer, but, in the end, Andrew knew he had to be honest. And, honestly, he didn't really need to think about it. He leaned down and into his wife, kissing her cheek with real warmth and affection. She was so tiny and so adorable, curled up against him like Juliet used to when she needed him. And that was when it hit him that maybe, for the first time in years and maybe in their entire relationship, Siobhan actually needed him too. She needed him to say that he would choose _her_.

His lips lingered on her cheek, as he allowed himself to marvel in the fact that she was allowing him to do this, to _touch_ her. He remembered how she'd scorned physical displays of affection early on in their marriage, how she'd begun to swat him away even when they were in private unless she was feeling benevolent. He'd been lucky to get an embrace half the time. Her rules for physical contact had been strictly outlined: rare pecks on the lips for special occasions, walking arm in arm only at events, a kiss on the cheek when greeting each other in public, and sex just enough so he wouldn't divorce her. Hand-holding was denied to him unless absolutely necessary, and he otherwise needed permission to touch her, his own wife.

He thought about how their lovemaking sessions had turned to just sex, an empty, frustrating physical release where, no matter how hard he tried, he could never really get inside her. She would never let him in. It's the second time he's kissed her cheek in two weeks, and she'd let him hold her the other night, all night after he told her about Gemma. He'd even thought he'd seen the glimmer of tears in her eyes. Siobhan hadn't allowed herself to be that vulnerable around him since they were first married. He could smell her skin, the scent of it rises up off of her, sweet like almonds. Her cheek was so, so soft against his lips, and he was close enough that he can think of nothing but kissing her.

He doesn't know how, but Andrew managed to pull away from her cheek and look at her. It was hard to get his lust-glazed eyes to focus, but he managed that too so that he could get a proper look at her. Her eyes have softened a little, but she was still watching him with thinly-veiled anxiety, a kind of fear that broke his heart a little because he knew she was right to feel that way, to feel the acute tenuousness and fragility of their present relationship. "Why, I'd pick you, of course," he murmured, brushing the hair away from her face and barely managing to restrain himself from bending down the all-too-few inches to her lips.

For a second, he debated telling her that he has never felt more in sync with her than he has the past few weeks, that these have been the happiest, least stormy weeks in his entire marriage, but he stopped just before speaking his mind, not wanting to reveal that much when he was still so uncertain about where this was going. She'd gone to see a divorce lawyer a few weeks ago, after all. This could just be some sort of weird tactic meant to throw him off so that he'll be flummoxed and completely unprepared and heartbroken once he finally received the papers.

Andrew turned to Siobhan, eying her carefully. He cleared his throat, which suddenly felt very dry. Andrew, though hardly a superstitious man, felt like his dream held some sort of hidden truth he was meant to uncover. It sounded stupid to him too, but he couldn't help but feel like his gut impulse was right, as usual. The more he thought about it, actually, the more his dream explained why Siobhan was being so nice to him—because she _wasn't_ Siobhan. She was someone else entirely. She did seem like a completely different person lately, but was it just a change of heart, or was it something else entirely? He glanced over at his wife, taking her in. But was that just wishful thinking on his part? He tried at first to phrase his inquiry like a joke. "Well, then, you're not Bridget pretending to be Siobhan, are you?" he drawled, attempting a smile.

She froze and swallowed hard, pulling away from him. He now knows that when she's acting odd, it has to do with Bridget or the mere memory of her sister. Bridget's what Siobhan was thinking of during all those distant, distracted moments where he feels like he can't reach her, and she's a million miles away. "She was pretending to be Si-me?" she asked in a choked voice. Andrew nodded slowly, and Bridget swallowed thickly, trying to think of something to say. She forced a laugh. If he notices the strain in the smile on her face, he doesn't say so. Her heart was hammering, and she drew back just enough so Andrew couldn't feel it. She missed the fact that his heart was beating faster too. "No, of _course_ not," she said hastily, realizing the need to reassure him that she was who she said she was, "Why would you think something like that?" It comes out a bit sharper than she meant from the panic she's trying to conceal.

Andrew frowned at her reaction, thinking it a bit hasty. "Just checking," he said, feeling a bit confused, trying to smile like he was actually joking. He eyed her searchingly, looking for something that will confirm who she is one way or the other. The sad truth of it is that, even if there was a way of telling the difference, he doesn't know either woman well enough to make the judgment. He wanted to say something different, something better. He wanted to say that she could tell him anything and that she doesn't have to be afraid of him or whatever it is, but he can't seem to get any of the words out. And, then again, maybe he doesn't _actually_ want to know.

She took a deep, calming breath, trying to steady her racing heart. She put one hand on his shoulder and the other at the base of his neck, kneading the tense muscles there like it's second nature. She's becoming disturbingly comfortable with him, getting accustomed to living with the poor man who's still as skittish as a baby rabbit around her. She offered Andrew a shy smile, squeezing his shoulder. "I'm sorry you had a nightmare..." His eyes are beginning to glaze over; her touch is slowly soothing him back to sleep. Her magic fingers seemed to drain the tension from his neck and make the muscles go limp. He didn't notice how long she was silent, lost in thought for a reason to explain away his dream. His eyes were half-closed but distantly gazing at her with a completely naked affection that, had he noticed, would've mortified him.

"I'm sure your dream was just about the differences between our marriage then and now," Bridget pronounced finally, meeting his gaze firmly. And then, because she was absolutely terrified that Andrew would catch her in the attempted misdirection and realize everything, she pressed her lips against his for one long moment. That woke Andrew up again, and next thing she knew, she was lying on her back on the bed with him half on top of her, kissing her like a husband ought to kiss his wife, with the passion she'd suspected lay dormant behind all his carefully-constructed walls and defenses. She felt dirty for doing it, for taking things that far. It felt like something her sister would've done.

Surprisingly, Andrew was the one to pull away, pushing himself off of her with a breathless, apologetic smile. He didn't know what had gotten into him, inspiring him to take things so much further than she obviously meant. Her lips had pressed against his, loose and soft and hesitant but with more force than he'd expected, and he'd gotten carried away responding to the touch he'd been so desperately craving for the past weeks. He hadn't expected her to respond quite in kind, had been very used to always being more interested in her than she ever seemed to be in him, but the sudden way her nails dug into the back of his neck and the way her hips had shifted to meet his made him wonder if he'd been mistaken to suspect she was having an affair. Bridget hated herself just a little bit more for missing the warmth of his body. He opened his mouth, about to say something, probably an apology, but she stopped him, unable to bear it.

She tried to talk to him like she hadn't just kissed him, like her face wasn't burning, like her lips weren't just the littlest bit pinker and swollen, wanting more, like she hadn't felt the traitorous pull of arousal. It was impossible, however, and she averted her gaze briefly. She can't speak with him looking at her like that, still dazed, body leaning up against hers, staring at her like he very much wants to kiss her again. She'd give in and more than let him if she so much as looked at him. "And Bridget..." Her own name catches in her mouth, and she has to swallow over a lump in her throat before she can continue speaking. "-Must've been on your mind because I only told you about her recently," she finished, trying to make herself smile a little. She turned then to watch him intently for any sign that he doesn't believe her.

It makes sense, even though there's the niggling sensation that he's not quite getting the full picture here and that she's actually told him very little about what type of person her sister is. It all seemed a bit too convenient and clear-cut, but he liked direct answers, so he accepts it anyway. Andrew nodded, relaxing and turning back onto his back. "Yeah, I don't know what I was thinking, love. You're probably right," he acknowledged, head flopping back onto his pillow. "Just a dream." He hasn't been able to take his eyes off of her, caught up in the memory of the surprise kiss they shared. The dream was... trippy, but it was just a dream, and it's all the more reason why he should stop drinking Scotch before going to bed.

Bridget smiled reassuringly, nodding and really hoping he'll drop it and go back to sleep. He leaned over and kissed his wife on the forehead, wondering why she was so tense and stiff when he touched her now. "'Night." He pulled away just long enough to peer down at his wife, half-suspended over her. Her breathing was a bit fast. She's praying, hoping he can't feel the tell-tale beat of her heart, stiff as as marble statue. She didn't dare move as Andrew wrapped his arm around her, easing her back towards him, fingers pressing sharply into her back to ease out the tension in a clumsy reciprocation of her earlier gesture. "Relax a little, Shiv," he urged sleepily, pulling the blankets up over her bare, chilled shoulders.

She almost jumped out of her skin, thinking he'd called her "Bridge" instead. She only allowed herself to relax when Andrew tucked her head under his chin and his hand followed the curve of her spine, fingers splayed possessively across the small of her back. He sighed into her hair, smelling his wife. He's either secretly relieved or secretly disappointed, but he can't tell which as he closed his eyes and sunk back into the pillow and blissful unconsciousness. But he went back to sleep feeling like he'd missed something important, that the truth he'd been looking for had been close at hand but had slipped through his fingers at the last moment.

He barely remembers the dream or the conversation when he wakes up later. He remembers the kiss, and that memory is enough to make him smile and forget the why as he gets up and starts to get ready for work. He hesitates, gazing back at her, and a moment of strange gratitude overcomes him, and he ducks down to steal a kiss on the cheek before his shower. She doesn't stir or wake.

But Bridget doesn't forget. She sleeps poorly all night in his arms, feeling trapped by him and this life, not knowing what's going to happen when he wakes up. And she can't help but wonder constantly if she ought to have told him the truth when she had the chance, when he was half-asleep. She's absolutely panic-stricken that he'll figure it all out in the light of day, but she pretends to be asleep so she won't have to hear whatever he has to say.

Only he doesn't say a word about his dream, doesn't offer up even a greeting to her supposedly sleeping form, just presses a fleeting kiss to her cheek, and then she hears the sound of the shower starting and clothes falling to the floor. She rolls over and catches a glimpse of her reflection, her sister's reflection, in the mirror over the chest of drawers. Who is she really, a hybrid of both sisters? She knows her secret's safe for another day, at least.

But, in the end, she isn't really happy or relieved about that. She dies a little more each day as Siobhan, choking on all the lies and hypocrisy, hating the masquerade, and, somehow, knowing no one's going to call her out on it makes her worse. She secretly wants someone to realize she isn't Siobhan and make her put an end to all of this so she can just be Bridget again. Otherwise, she's sure that, one way or the other, keeping this secret, keeping her sister alive, might just cost her her soul.


End file.
